


Defect

by Psilent (HereThereBeFic)



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Disabled Character, Gen, Spoilers, Treachery Faith and the Great River, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-02-28 22:10:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2748980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereThereBeFic/pseuds/Psilent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>For all that Odo is already aware of the Founders' capacity for ruthlessness, he cannot help but wonder at the sheer cruelty of this method of termination - and at the lie of it being quick and painless.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>And then he cannot help but wonder something else entirely.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"Don't... take this the wrong way," he says. "But are you sure you did it right?"</i>
</p><p>A look at how one Vorta's survival might have changed everything - or nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dysfunctional

**Author's Note:**

> Blanket spoiler warning for the entire series, but especially the overall arc of the later seasons.
> 
> This is an AU diverging primarily from the ending of the episode "Treachery, Faith and the Great River." There are smaller elements likely to pop up just because they've become incorporated so thoroughly into my own headcanon that I can't not use them, as well as one other large difference that will become apparent later.
> 
> Content Warnings (this chapter only): Death, near-death experience, suicide, failed suicide, difficulty breathing / remaining conscious.

"Please, Odo." Weyoun is grasping his arm, pleading, and this can't possibly be happening. This entire day has been one long string of things that could not possibly have been happening and it has all culminated in this. "Tell me that I haven't failed. That I've served you well."

"You have!" That, at least, he can say honestly. "And for that you have my gratitude."

It's not enough. It's not _enough_ ; Weyoun's eyes say it all, say with undeniable certainty that if Odo can't shove aside his own misgivings long enough to tell him what he wants to hear, he's going to die heartbroken.

He tries, for this one moment, to sound like a God: "And... my blessing."

He thinks he's going to shatter at the new look on Weyoun's face. He shouldn't have this power; his word of all people's shouldn't determine anyone's happiness in their dying moments.

Weyoun shudders, curls in on himself against Odo's chest and breathes. The sound is ragged and halting and Odo can do nothing but hold him and wait for it to stop altogether.

It doesn't.

Minute by minute, Weyoun keeps breathing, and keeps shaking, and for all that Odo is already aware of the Founders' capacity for ruthlessness, he cannot help but wonder at the sheer cruelty of this method of termination - and at the lie of it being quick and painless.

And then he cannot help but wonder something else entirely.

"Don't... take this the wrong way," he says. "But are you sure you did it right?"

Slowly, Weyoun begins to uncurl. His fingers tighten around Odo's arm as he tries to sit up, and Odo helps him lean against the wall.

"Not... not really," he wheezes. "It's... It's instinctive."

"Of course it is."

"But... If I'm... If I really am _defective_ , I suppose I might have..." He manages, somehow, to heave an annoyed sigh. Odo is impressed. "It's a very _precise_ process. It's _possible_ I was a millimeter or two off in the pressure application, or... or the implant itself may simply be dysfunctional."

"Whatever the reason, I think we can call ourselves grateful."

"I wouldn't count on it lasting too long. Have I mentioned--" Weyoun shuts his eyes and inhales sharply, clutching suddenly at his chest and throwing his head back against the wall. "...that I am still in excruciating pain. I am still - shutting down. I can feel it. The process may simply be... slower."

" _Huh_. If you can last until we reach Deep Space 9, I'm sure Doctor Bashir will be able to... do _something_ for you."

Weyoun grimaces. "For all our sakes, I hope so."

"Can you stand?"

"I highly doubt it. I can't promise I'll be... awake... for much longer..."

Odo considers the situation. It's slightly less bleak than it was the last time he considered it. "Wait here. I'm just going make sure the autopilot is still functional. I should... monitor you on the way back."

"Odo." Weyoun huffs a breathless laugh. "You won't be able to _do_ anything if I die."

Odo stands up, crossing his arms. "I'll be able to keep you from dying alone."

And there's that _look_ again.


	2. Inevitable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Near death experience, mention of restraints in a hospital setting, an angry crowd calling for someone's death.

They really had come unbearably close to a clean getaway.

Weyoun passes out with an hour left to go, and it takes every bit of self control Odo has not to leap up and start checking on the runabout’s systems - especially communications. He can’t shake the worry that it’s shorted out or is just about to and he’ll have no way to warn anyone on the station that he’s got a severely wounded defector who _cannot be seen_.

He forces himself to stay where he is. He wouldn’t be able to repair a broken comm system on his own, and if Weyoun is going to die, he’s not going to die alone on the floor. Whether he knows it or not.

He is still alive when they finally come into range of the station.

“Rio Grande to Ops," Odo says, and lets his head fall back against the wall in relief when the reply comes through loud and clear:

"Ops here. You're late, Rio Grande." It's Kira's voice, worry masked under teasing, and the rush of affection and guilt threatens to open the floodgates on the panicked contemplation Odo has been quietly staving off about the revelation of his people's sickness.

He tamps it all firmly down and does his job. "Request emergency transport to the infirmary, myself and one passenger, security procedure nine alpha seven. I’ll explain later.”

 

* * *

 

They make it a day and a half in a walled off corner of the infirmary before someone, somehow, finds out what they’re doing.

It feels inevitable. Everyone is furious, and frantic, but no one can quite pull off surprised.

Odo has his suspicions, mostly in the shape of illegal listening devices, but he doubts even Quark would sell this sort of information. Regardless of the source, within hours the station is buzzing and they’ve been forced into a communications lockdown to prevent word from spreading. Docked ships are being held, incoming visitors turned away, and something has got to be _done_. Soon.

It takes Captain Sisko himself threatening to have everyone detained to keep the combined crowd of panicked civilians and more quietly panicked Starfleet Intelligence agents out of the infirmary long enough for an exhausted Doctor Bashir to determine that Weyoun is definitely going to live.

Sisko and Odo draw aside the most important-looking of these agents and calmly explain to xem, as repeatedly rehearsed, that they think it would be in everyone’s best interests if Odo were allowed to carry out Weyoun’s debriefing.

Well. Captain Sisko calmly explains. Odo mostly stands there as a visual aid and tries not to open his mouth. He’s never sure where he stands with any given Starfleet officer these days.

"He trusts Odo," Sisko says, voice low and urgent, and Mixter Sarrel nods along quietly. "He _reveres_ Odo.”

"So I’ve heard." Sarrel shoots Odo a look that Odo isn’t sure how to interpret. It’s always… awkward, when his allies are reminded of his status among their enemies.

He decides to risk speaking. “Weyoun feels that he’s betraying his people - and his Gods - by coming to us,” he says, thinking over his words carefully. “If you allow him to speak to me, rather than a Starfleet agent… He will be much more at ease, and much more… forthcoming.”

"I agree," Sarrel says quietly. "But it’s not me who needs convincing. This is big. I’m going to have to take this to the Chief."

Sisko nods, already moving on to the next point while Odo tries to get over his shock at the lack of argument. “Would it help if either of us came along?”

"I doubt it. You’re both needed here. Especially with a potential saboteur on the station."

"He tried to sacrifice his _life_ to save mine on the way here,” Odo snaps, before he can stop himself. “Hardly the course a saboteur would take.”

"Constable," Sisko says sharply, but Sarrel only raises an eyebrow.

"I did say _potential_ , Constable Odo.” ( _I am not a constable_ , Odo thinks, but doesn’t say, and swears there is a flash of smugness on Sisko’s face as Sarrel neatly adopts the informal title.) “But for what it’s worth, _yes_ , convincing you he was willing to die for you sounds _exactly_ like the beginnings of sabotage. Watch him closely.”

"I assume Starfleet Intelligence will be doing the same," Sisko says dryly.

Sarrel smiles. “It is our job, sir.”

"It’s also _mine_ ,” Odo points out, because he probably can’t dig himself any deeper than he already has but apparently he’s going to try. “I’m perfectly capable of keeping an eye on one prisoner.”

“ _You’re_ going to be keeping an eye on the entire station,” Sisko says, in a familiar tone that means _you are pushing your luck with a very powerful official and you need to stop before I stop you_. It’s a conversation Odo very much does not want to have out loud in front of a Starfleet Intelligence agent, and it’ll be his own damn fault if they do.

Sarrel nods xir agreement with Sisko’s statement. “If no one tries to kill him while he’s here, it’ll be a miracle.”

"Too late for miracles, I’m afraid," Odo grunts. "Four attempts have already been made on Weyoun’s life."

Sarrel doesn't even blink. “Only four?”

Odo stands just a little bit taller. “I’m very good at my job.”

"Yes," Sisko says, smiling easily. "You are. I’ll let you get back to it while Mixter Sarrel and I discuss a few things."

It’s a more polite dismissal than he’s probably earned, and he knows better than to ask to be kept updated on the situation. There are few people he trusts in these matters, but - if he needs to know something, Captain Sisko will see to it that he does.

And if not, there are other ways to find out.

 

* * *

 

Weyoun wakes up to noise and darkness.

He disregards the second and tries to puzzle out the first.

People are shouting, somewhere on the other side of a wall. Bits and pieces come through, a half-comprehensible mess as his translator implant scrambles for context.

_"–let him die!"_

_"Throw him out the airlock!"_

_"SPACE HIM! SPACE HIM! SPACE HIM!"_

Ah, good. He must have made it to Deep Space 9 after all.

There is someone in the room with him. Standing near the end of his bed. They’re not breathing.

"Odo?" His voice is hoarse and his throat aches. He wonders how long he’s been lying here.

"I was wondering if you’d admit to being conscious." Relief washes over him at the sound of Odo’s voice, rough and solemn and a good indicator that there are probably no assassins in the room.

He closes his eyes. “We made it.”

"Yes."

"How long has it been?"

"Three days. I should tell Doctor Bashir you’re awake."

Panic flares in his chest. They are going to haul him off to Starfleet Intelligence for questioning the second they’re sure he won’t die on the way. “Please,” he gasps, trying to reach out. He can barely lift his arm. Is he fatigued or is he restrained? “Just… May I have… a moment.”

"Doctor Bashir’s first priority is the health and safety of his patients," Odo says, and the sound grounds him more than the words, strikes a chord buried deep and instills an instinctive calm – a Founder is speaking kindly to him. "No one is going to interrogate you in his infirmary, believe me."

Weyoun opens his eyes and can barely make out a blotch moving against the still darkness of the room as Odo approaches him. It occurs to him that he has just asked a Founder to reconsider their actions on his own behalf. He feels ill.

Odo lays a hand on his arm. No containment field, then. Far too trusting, the Federation. Sudden tactile memory bites at him, pain exploding in his skull and Odo’s hands on his arms, Odo’s arms around his back and stomach, mind and body shutting down, clinging to a reluctant blessing and waiting for death. He shuts his eyes again.

"…But." Odo’s voice is softer now. "I’ll wait a few minutes to call him."

Weyoun is no longer sure he's awake. Everything is far away, the noise outside muffling his thoughts. Somehow, he whispers, “Thank you.”


	3. Loyal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: Drawn-out debriefing reminiscent of an interrogation. Discussion of both terminal illness and deliberately engineered substance addiction with a lot of use of words like "cure" and "fix." Discussion of the possibility of the mass extinction of a sentient species. Discussion of autonomy/free will and culpability. War, death.

OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT OF DEBRIEFING OF **DOMINION** DEFECTOR **WEYOUN 6** TAKING PLACE STARDATE 52279.1 - 52279.9

DEBRIEFING CONDUCTED BY **ODO** (FILE ATTACHED) UNDER SUPERVISION OF S.I.A. **SARREL**

PREPARATION OF NON-STARFLEET DEBRIEFING PERSONNEL COMPLETED BY S.I.A. **SARREL**

TRANSCRIPT TAKEN BY S.I.A. **DAVIS** AND CORROBORATED BY COMPUTER

VIDEO AND AUDIO RECORDINGS ATTACHED

 

* * *

 

**PAGE 7**

**W6:** Yes.

 **O:** And you retain the memories of each clone before you?

 **W6:** Yes.

 **O:** Does Weyoun 7 retain _your_ memories?

 **W6:** Only those that occurred before he was activated. He has no knowledge of my current activities.

 **O:** And if he is killed and replaced by a new clone?

 **W6:** Weyoun 8 will gain the memories of Weyouns 1 through 5, Weyoun 7, and my memories only up to the point that Weyoun 7 was activated.

 **O:** And how do you know this?

 **W6:** It has been tested. It's a failsafe, so that _[ **W6** here pauses for several seconds]_

 **O:** Go on.

 **W6:** So that if need be, if too many cloning facilities were destroyed or too many patterns were otherwise lost, multiple clones in the same line could be deployed at the same time and work independently of each other.

 **O:** Is this a strategy the Dominion often employs?

 **W6:** Not to my knowledge. Lately they seem to enjoy thinking of us as individuals.

 **O:** How quickly can a cloning facility be repaired?

 **W6:** It depends on the damage and the circumstances. It would not be a priority in the midst of battle, unless there was a serious shortage of Vortan agents beforehand. The Jem'Hadar would simply be charged with protecting their Vorta at all costs until repairs were complete. Jem'Hadar are created in separate facilities.

 **O:** Are you aware of the coordinates of any of these cloning facilities?

 **W6:** The facility I was activated in is located on Rondac III. I don't know the locations of any others that are currently active.

 **O:** Are you aware of the location of any facilities used for creating the Jem'Hadar?

 **W6:** They are not - yes. There is a set of Jem'Hadar birthing chambers on Ondar II.

 **O:** What were you going to say?

 **W6:** The Jem'Hadar are not - should not be held responsible for _[ **W6** here pauses for several seconds]_

 **O:** They are soldiers.

 **W6:** Because they aren't made to be anything else. It's not their fault. They're _loyal_.

 **O:** Just like the Vorta.

 **W6:** Yes.

 **O:** Do you know of any way to cure the Jem'Hadar of their dependency on Ketracel-white?

 **W6:** No. Occasionally, through a genetic fluke, a Jem'Hadar will be created without the dependency, but to my knowledge there is no way to remove it from a fully formed adult.

 **O:** You claimed to know the coordinates of a new Ketracel-white storage facility.

 **W6:**  Yes, in the Pelosa system. 507-mark-23. I would suggest - forgive me.

 **O:** Go right ahead.

 **W6:** I would suggest removing as much of the compound and equipment as possible from the facility for study.

 **O:** Your suggestion is noted. Do you believe the Federation would be capable of reproducing the compound, given sufficient reference material?

 **W6:** It can't hurt to try.

 

* * *

 

**PAGE 15**

**W6:** I have been aware of the sickness for several weeks now. That is, my predecessor has been. The Founder told him several weeks ago, after he witnessed a manifestation of the symptoms.

 **O:** Earlier you told me that she summoned you to a meeting, where you noticed her hands beginning to shrivel. Was it you, or was it Weyoun 5?

 **W6:** 5\. Yes. I'm sorry. It's easier sometimes to treat one's line as oneself when relaying information.

 **O:** You think of yourself and Weyoun 5 as the same person?

 **W6:** Not at all. He never did appreciate the same things in life that I've so far found I do - all that time on Deep Space 9 and not once did he think to sample the full replicator menu.

 **O:** I see.

 **W6:** I was only active for a few days before I escaped and contacted you. As I said before.

 **O:** All right. Do you think the Founder was aware of the sickness herself before Weyoun 5 noticed it?

 **W6:** Not for very long. The team of scientists and doctors were assembled directly after that. I don't think she would have hidden it from the Vorta for the sake of privacy, not when she could have us working to fix it.

 **O:** Were you involved in the search for a vaccine?

 **W6:** Not personally, no. I occasionally supervised, and I was a regular go-between for the Founder and the scientists.

 **O:** And last you knew, how much progress had been made towards finding a vaccine?

 **W6:** They are working diligently to -

 **O:** I'm sure they are. How close are they?

 **W6:** Progress has been... limited.

 **O:** How limited?

 **W6:** We know in broad terms that the disease is progressing rapidly and that it is most likely terminal. That is the useful extent of our knowledge. We don't even know what's causing it. Samples provided by the Founder were not impacted beneficially in any way by any of the prototypes tested before my departure.

 **O:** Do you anticipate any major breakthroughs?

 **W6:** I'm sorry.

 **O:** What will happen to the Dominion in the event of the death of the Founders, disregarding the possibility of... outside interference?

 **W6:** They might leave instructions for their agents. They...

 **O:** Yes?

 **W6:** They might not care about what happens once they are no longer... involved. If I... might venture to comment on... I shouldn't.

 **O:** Please do.

 **W6:** They are old, Odo. Very old. They haven't had to face the threat of individual death on a regular basis for some time before this war, let alone... extinction. I'm not sure they know what to do.

 

* * *

 

**PAGE 31**

**W6:** How long has it been?

 **O:** Five hours.

 **W6:** Oh.

 **O:** Are you hungry?

 **W6:** No. Did you already ask me about the cloning facilities?

 **O:** Yes.

_[ **W6** stands and begins to pace.]_

**O:** Someone bring him some more water.

 **W6:** I'm fine.

 **O:** You're getting confused.

 **W6:** I'm tired. That's all.

 **O:** We can continue this tomorrow.

 **W6:** I don't know if I'll be able to come in here again.

 **O:** You're doing the right thing.

_[At this point **W6** retakes his seat. He lays his head on the table and begins to weep.]_

**W6:** I'm killing them. I'm killing them.

 **O:** Will someone please get him some damn water! Sarrel!

 

* * *

 

**PAGE 43**

**W6:** I don't know any more about that. I'm sorry.

 **O:** It's all right. You're doing fine.

 **W6:** I don't know how much more I have to tell.

 **O:** You understand Dominion tactics and you know most of their codes. Are you willing to remain on Deep Space 9 as a consultant to the Federation Alliance?

 **W6:** Yes.

 **O:** And are you willing to comply with all security measures deemed necessary to prevent the Dominion from learning of your survival, to prevent those around you from harming you, and to make certain beyond any doubt that you are not in league with the Dominion?

 **W6:** Yes.

 **O:** Then I think we're done here.

 **W6:** Out of curiosity, what did Captain Sisko tell the civilians who have already seen me?

 **O:** You were unconscious and barely alive at any point when they could have seen you. Captain Sisko and Colonel Kira have announced that you died in the infirmary.

 **W6:** Have they not asked for proof?

 **O:** Of course they have. Your body was burned in front of witnesses and the ashes were shot into space for disposal.

 **W6:** Delightful. I'm sorry I missed it.


	4. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: Mention of weapons, armed guards, etc.

"Welcome home," Odo mutters, pats him on the back and slides past him as he stands, at a loss, in the doorway. 

"This doesn't look like a holding cell," he manages, finally. It _does_ , he doesn't add, _sound_ a little like one. He can hear the distinctive hums of at least two different Starfleet signal blockers.

"You aren't a prisoner."

Weyoun looks pointedly over his shoulder at the two armed security guards standing in the corridor - one of Odo's Bajoran officers, and a Starfleet Bolian.

Odo crosses his arms. " _Hm_. They're here for your protection."

"I imagine one of the things they're here to protect me _from_ would be any ideas about leaving this room?"

"If you're determined to feel that Starfleet doesn't trust you, then yes: this room is being monitored for unauthorized transmissions of any kind, in or out. The door is equipped with a retinal scanner and backup voice lock, and the guards have been instructed to warn you once and then stun you if you attempt to leave unsupervised."

Weyoun blinks. "Do you always tell your prisoners exactly what they're up against?"

"You are _not_ my prisoner," Odo growls. "And I'm telling you because I'm _not_ Starfleet: I _do_ trust you. To a point. I never said those were the _only_ security measures."

Weyoun really does try not to stare. He also tries not to collapse weeping in an exhausted heap, which he is more successful at, so he counts the overall endeavor as a success.

"...I know you won't like to hear it, but that means a lot."

"I'm aware." Odo gestures vaguely around the room. "I assume you're familiar with the general setup here."

A genetic or learned response to cover negative emotions, and one he is too tired to notice in time to stop: Weyoun smiles. "I remember, yes."

"You'll find the replicator has a much wider selection than the one on the runabout."

He actually does perk up at that. "Oh?"

"I doubt it has the pattern for kava nuts or brippleberries, but there should be plenty of... new textures for you to try."

"Excellent. As soon as I've slept for... I don't know, do you think a month would do it?"

Odo grants him a small, short laugh. "You spent half the trip back here asleep. I would think you'd be eager to – do anything else, really."

"It wasn't... particularly restful."

"I see. Well. I'll leave you to it, then. You should receive your first intelligence reports by tomorrow. The official timeframe for decoding them is 'as quickly as possible.'"

Weyoun grins. “I'll do it in half that.”

Odo doesn't laugh this time. He stops near the small, square table in front of the replicator and sets down a tiny object that Weyoun can't make out. "I'm leaving you a comm badge. If you need anything, press it once, and it will connect you straight to the first approved officer it detects who isn't in the presence of anyone else wearing a tracker. Failing that, it will reroute to me, regardless of my situation, or Captain Sisko if I am unavailable for any reason, Colonel Kira if _he_ is unavailable, etc."

"I'll try not to need anything in the event of the entire list taking spontaneous leave."

"Don't state your name. You are Ensign Rainer, a Human Starfleet officer, and your voice will be disguised and independently translated over the channel to prevent anyone from noticing any discrepancies."

Weyoun approaches the table and looks down at the badge in some amusement. "Very... elaborate. What about the guards?"

"What _about_ the guards?"

"You and Starfleet are going to great lengths to prevent anyone from realizing I'm here. So how are you explaining the security personnel?"

" _If_ anyone asks: a high-ranking official from an undisclosed government is taking up residence on the station to flee the political violence of their homeworld."

"...Immediately after a Dominion agent attempts to defect and is assumed killed?" He tries not to sound _disappointed_ , is horrified at the note of baffled disapproval in his own voice, but he is in complete and utter awe of how much that really, really is not going to work.

Odo crosses his arms again. "It was _Starfleet's_ idea, not mine."

"That's a very...” He searches for a more diplomatic word than _ridiculous_. “... _temporary_ solution, in any case. Surely this high-ranking official has to leave eventually. At the very least, someone would come _after_ them?"

"My thoughts exactly."

He's pretty sure he knows the answer to what he is about to ask. He hopes he has it wrong. "What does it mean?"

Odo sighs. It seems an odd thing for a Founder to do. Weyoun wonders, unbidden, if he does it unconsciously after so much practice or still has to think about it first.

He wants to mirror Odo's stance – closed off, unperturbed if grim, definitely not terrified like Weyoun suddenly is. He can't seem to move as Odo speaks.

"It means that you and I, and Starfleet, _all_ know that the Dominion isn't going to fall for _anything_ we do for very long."


	5. Capacity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References the events s7e08, The Siege of AR-558.
> 
> Content warnings: War, death.

It's several days before anyone but Odo stops by to speak to him. 

"Captain!" He jumps to his feet, nearly throwing the PADD he was working on. He's been decoding intel for so long it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to looking at three-dimensional objects.

And the three-dimensional Starfleet officer standing in his doorway.

Sisko gives a sharp nod and waves easily at the couch as the door slides shut behind him. "You can sit down. I just have a few questions." 

He's not sure if taking the permission would be a sign of weakness or not. More likely the captain is trying to put him at ease. May as well let him run things how he likes: Weyoun sits. 

Sisko stands in front of him with his hands behind his back. "What can you do with a damaged Dominion communications array?"

Oh, this is not going to be good. Buy some time. "In what capacity?"

"In any capacity."

Weyoun sighs. Sisko has dealt too extensively with his predecessor to be stalled by his tactics, and the thought is a disturbing one. "I could probably tell you where it was made, how old it is, and when it was scheduled to be replaced."

"Could you repair it?"

"I'm not an engineer."

"That's not what I asked."

"...No. I couldn't repair it."

Sisko nods. The picture of calm. "Do you believe it would be at all possible for us to use it to gain access to the Dominion's communications?" Another disturbing thought: Weyoun 5 would have relished the tension in the captain's voice as a victory.

He considers the question, tries to find a positive spin on the only honest answer and gives up because there isn't one. "If it was damaged and captured more than a few _hours_ ago, the Dominion will have noticed by now that the array is not responding and will no longer send any signals to it."

Sisko makes a noise of frustration and begins to pace the room. "A lot of people, good people, _died_ defending that array. Are you _absolutely_ _sure_?"

 _And how many Jem'Hadar died trying to recapture it_ , Weyoun wonders. "I'm afraid I am. It's... not outside the realm of possibility that the Dominion planned for exactly that." _Not outside the realm of - stop **lying**._ "In fact, it's almost certain they did." _We. We did. That would have been planned when 5 was still active._

Sisko slows his pacing but doesn't stop, drags his hands down his face and shakes his head. "I was afraid you were going to say something like that."

"They don't mind sending waves of Jem'Hadar to defend strategically useless locations and equipment if it means waves of Starfleet officers will be there to meet them. It's possible the array was never functional to begin with."

"It was the largest in the sector."

Oh. Oh no. "Captain, which array are we _talking_ about?" 

Sisko comes to a halt in front of the small dining table, rests a closed fist on the surface and takes a long moment to answer. "AR-558. In the Chin'toka system."

Horror creeps up Weyoun's spine. He draws a sharp breath and it leaves him dizzy. "I... I told Starfleet in my debriefing that that array had already been quietly replaced due to the volatile nature of its position." 

Sisko turns to face him, looks away. Knocks on the table once and begins pacing again, more erratically this time. "I know... I know you did. That debriefing came about five months too late for the officers stationed there. We went to pull them out, based on your intelligence, and got pinned down with them by Jem'Hadar. Securing the array was incidental to securing our own escape. I thought it wouldn't hurt to get confirmation before we let it go to waste. If you're telling me it's basically a hunk of scrap metal, I'll tell them to go ahead and assign it to low-priority study, see if we can't at least learn something about how they work. For all the good that will do us." 

"I'm sorry."

For a long moment, Sisko just looks at him. Then he exhales, too much behind it to be a sigh. He sounds like he's just decided something. "I have to get back to work."

"Of course."

But he stops at the door. Doesn't turn back around, simply pauses with his face angled just out of scanner range. "Two columns of Jem'Hadar. I don't know their names."

He leaves.

Weyoun is cold.

 


	6. Privacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Patient worrying about a therapist revealing the contents of a session, which is most likely correct. Reference to hypothetical violence. Mentions of drowning.

It isn't quite clear to him how he's ended up having lunch with Chief O'Brien.

Even less clear is the tangle of conversation that has led to him babbling over the table at the engineer with a startling lack of both eloquence and restraint.

O'Brien hasn't stopped him. Maybe that's the only reason.

"The ideal situation everyone thinks of in these matters is that you get ahold of a traitor and they tell you everything," Weyoun says, gesturing wildly with a spoon. "But any organization that gets far enough to even _warrant_ such subterfuge knows better than to _give_ any one agent access to that much information! Ask me about tactics, ask me about _motives_ , I can come up with something _usefu_ _l_ , but _engineering_? It wasn't my _job_."

"I know how you feel." O'Brien gestures in a more subdued way over his own bowl of stew. "I used to laugh about the idea of anyone trying to interrogate me about Starfleet intel. 'Sorry, guess you didn't notice the lack of pips, don't suppose you need any holosuites repaired?'"

Despite himself, Weyoun laughs. "You could always threaten to undo whatever it is you just did to my replicator; I'm sure they'd send you home." It is very, very hard to create something so awful a Vorta can't stand the taste. He has now added 'vinegar' to the list of flavors he can detect. He hopes never to detect it again. "I think I would feel more useful if I at least knew what was going _on_ at any given moment."

"See, again." O'Brien indicates the empty space on his uniform collar where commissioned officers display their rank. "Nobody tells me anything."

"You're senior staff, aren't you?"

"Well," O'Brien amends, pausing for a spoonful. "Nobody _used_ to tell me anything. There was a time the first I'd have heard of you bein' _alive_ would have been that you needed your replicator fixed. I'd guess I'm about halfway in the loop now."

"That's more than I can say. Though I suppose I should just be glad I'm not in a cell."

"That's one way to look at it."

 

* * *

 

“ _Counseling_?” He is not awake enough for this.

Lieutenant Dax shrugs, apologetic in a way that does not fall concretely on either side of insincerity. "I'm just making my rounds. Your name's been added to my list."

"Your _list_.”

Ah.

Of course.

His replicator happens to malfunction, and Captain Sisko happens to be willing to spare the station's chief engineer to fix it – the station's very personable chief engineer, who sat there as he rattled off petty insecurities, and never once told him to shut up.

And now they send him a _counselor_.

She smiles at him. "I check up on everyone on the station who's considered vital to the war effort."

Her presence so far has added nothing to the quiet, high droning of the various listening devices planted around the room: either Starfleet has improved the stealth of their surveillance technology, or they've sent him a therapist with perfect recall.

He grimaces back, and wonders if it would be rude to offer condolences on Jadzia's death. Probably. "And I suppose you're telling me that because you think I need to feel important."

"Am I wrong?"

"Oh, not at all." He rubs his face where it's been pressed into the couch for the last several hours, and thinks that possibly the fact that he is not awake enough for this is the entire point. "I'm already impressed." Uncertain, and covering automatically with confidence, and immediately sure that she's going to notice that, he moves over and gestures at the space beside him on the couch.

Not ideal. He’ll barely be able to observe her visually, while she will presumably be able to watch him from her peripheral vision, but there are no other seats apart from the two at the table, and relocating would just be conspicuous, and - and he _has nothing to hide_.

He is overcompensating. Punishing himself for his mistake with O'Brien.

_Stop it._

"Please, sit down."

She sits, and gets right to it. "Odo tells me you've been sleeping a lot."

"As it turns out, betraying one's people can be very draining."

"Do you still consider them your people?"

He barks a laugh. "I do hope this isn't Starfleet's _only_ attempt at double-checking my motives, because if they're searching for a subtlety threshold, congratulations, you've just found it for them."

"And _you_ haven't answered my question."

"Lieutenant, I'm _genetically compelled_ to revere the Founders as _Gods_ , and every minute of every day I'm becoming more and more _acutely_ aware of the fact that _so_ is every other Vorta, and every Jem'Hadar. Yes. I still consider them my _people_. No, that does not mean I've changed my mind about the war. It's _wrong_. Yes, holding such an internally contradictory belief causes me considerable distress; no, I don't feel rested after sleeping; yes, I have _nightmares_. Please, choose any of those to run with, I'm eager to see _which_ you decide to tackle first."

He blinks, shakes his head, and turns to face her. "I'm sorry. I'm perfectly aware that I'm employing aggressive and self-deprecatory humor as a defense mechanism, and I'm sure you've heard it all a hundred times before from a hundred other patients. I don't know if I can actually _stop_ it."

She shrugs, leaning forward over the edge of the couch with her arms crossed over her knees. "At least you admit it. You've just done about half my job for me by acknowledging your faith as anything other than a conscious choice. I was counting on spending at least an hour on that."

Weyoun sighs, turns away, and mimics her pose. "Acknowledging it does not _change_ it."

"We might be able to dismantle it on a psychological level, over time. If you want."

"You're... giving me a choice?" Unacceptable, dropping his guard enough for audible hesitation in the presence of a professional psychologist almost certainly here to collect data and report back on his state of mind, but the conversation has just veered sharply off the path he had resigned himself to.

"Of course!” She sounds... genuinely surprised. Disturbed, even. Interesting. “As long as it doesn't interfere in your work with Starfleet, your beliefs are your beliefs, and your business! My job is to make sure you can cope with _defying_ your Gods, not to convince you that's not what they _are_."

"Right now,” he mutters, filing away most of the data gathered so far to ponder _later_ , and hoping Ezri will allow a change in topic, “I would settle for being able to sleep through the night."

"Why don't you tell me about these nightmares?"

He straightens up, shrugs, makes a real effort not to hunt for the least incriminating details. He is not undercover. He is _not undercover_. "Oh, I expect they're... fairly standard. Running for my life. Allies and enemies changing places. I had one last night about drowning in the Great Link, that was quite an experience. Weyoun 2 drowned, I'm sure that has something to do with it. It's all terribly...  _dreary_."

Ezri is quiet for a long moment.

When she speaks, her voice is as close to being flat as he suspects it will ever be. "So... you dream about your life being in danger, about not being sure who your allies are, and about not only your beliefs in an abstract sort of way but your Gods themselves literally killing you."

"Apparently."

"I don't need to spell that out any further, do I?"

He almost laughs. "No, no, I think I've got a reasonably firm grasp on it. Though to be clear, I've rationalized to myself that helping Starfleet end this war as soon as possible will mean sparing the lives of countless Vorta and Jem'Hadar, so please don't worry too much about the... allies and enemies business."

"Noted,” she says, and her tone tells him that that's absolutely getting reported to someone – if he's lucky, maybe with a footnote about _candidness_. Excellent. “And how's that rationalization been working out for you?"

"On a practical level, it's perfectly functional and allows me to work to the best of my ability – or at least, be prepared to do so in the event of anyone actually _asking_ me to... On a personal level, I'm horrified at myself, and thinking about the Founders makes me physically ill. I'm open to suggestions."

“Have you tried meditating?”

“...No.”

She giggles. “That was a joke. Unless you think it might help!”

“Not really.”

“Then it was definitely a joke.”

Despite himself, he smiles. “Anything else?”

“It might help to write down your dreams. Not even to show me, or anyone else, if you don't want to – just the process of writing them out can sometimes help, because you have to put conscious thought into it, instead of just... remembering the emotions, or brief sensations – flashes of imagery, or sound... It can make them make more sense, or help you realize how much they _don't_ make sense.”

Her words stumble from rehearsed and clinical to something that speaks more of personal experience. Weyoun decides, for the moment, not to comment. He leans back against the couch and says, “It's worth a try. Unfortunately, I don't have anything to write them down _in_. The only writing I do is decoding, and the materials are removed when I'm finished.”

“I'll make sure you're given something. What do they think you'll do with a PADD and a stylus? Stab a guard in the neck?”

“And overwrite every security measure in this room to send intel back _home_. Naturally.”

“You're in a strange position,” Ezri says softly, instead of the  _You can't blame them for being cautious_ that he'd been so prepared for he could nearly hear it.

He blinks. “I'm sorry?”

“You're risking your life for people who don't trust you. For people who don't know you exist and would hate you if they did. I just want you to know that I do... recognize that.”

“And I... appreciate that.” Weyoun is rapidly losing his footing in this conversation. The feeling is more familiar than he would like it to be. “Ah – do you think it would be possible to cut this a bit short? You've... given me a lot to think about.”

“Of course.” Ezri stands, and he follows suit. She reaches out and suddenly they are shaking hands – deliberate physical contact, professional but friendly, _warm_ , meaningless in this context as anything but a show of respect. Why?

She smiles at him again, and lets go of his hand. “I'll see you again soon.”

She turns to leave, and something in him wants to scream. She is quite clearly _letting_ him run this, leaving early because he _asked nicely_ , and he is angry with himself for not knowing what to do about it.

Interacting with these people is not supposed to be a game, not anymore, but he is still panicking at the thought of anyone else making the last move.

“Lieutenant.” He waits until she's turned back to face him. “Privacy is... one of the more pleasant illusions. I would appreciate it, if... you didn't mention the drowning.”

She looks stricken – long enough for him to see it, recognize it, catalogue it. Too long. She is either unseasoned in the art of deception, or very, _very_ good at it.

She's young. She's not. She's experienced. She's not.

He knows the feeling.

“Do your job, Lieutenant,” he says softly, when her silence has stretched long enough that he knows she isn't going to respond. “I won't hold it against you.”


	7. Diplomacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: Prison / prisoners of war. Coerced suicide discussed, torture mentioned. (Real) insult pertaining to someone's parentage. (Fictional) insult that is essentially based in alien ableism. Throat slitting mentioned.

It's a very nice holding cell. The walls, except for the transparent one facing into the corridor, are a muted gray. Nothing that might induce headaches. There is a desk in one corner, littered with papers and books - no PADDs, no computers, no electronics. There is a bed, a toilet, a shower, a replicator. It is by all appearances a tiny, self-sustaining home.  _Comfortable_ , if... snug. 

In the middle of the cell there is a hard-backed chair, and Yelgrun sits slumped as though chained to it. He blinks at his visitor through the transparent wall and makes no move to straighten up.

"So I  _did_ hear a body falling just now. I  _thought_  it sounded familiar. Too loud, Weyoun. You're slipping." His voice is distorted by the speaker in the wall. Just barely. Most likely below the notice of the average Starfleet agent.

It's already beginning to grate on Weyoun's nerves.

He tilts his head back, imperious. "Is that any way to greet your ticket out of here?"

Yelgrun laughs. Once, and coldly. "And  _into_  where? I think I'll stay put, if it's all the same to you."

"It's really not."

"I figured. I haven't told them anything, if you care."

"Oh,  _well!_ " Weyoun claps his hands together and smiles brightly. He wonders what the distortion will do to the clap. "If you haven't  _told_ them anything, by all means! I'll just take your word for it, shall I?"

Yelgrun's smile is thin and tight. "I'd sure appreciate that."

"Yelgrun." Weyoun takes a step closer, spreads his hands in a gesture of peace. And of _I can and will clap into this speaker again_. "I'm  _not_  here to torture you."

"Yeah, I'll just take _your_ word for it, huh?"

"You're hardly in a position to do much else. Tell me: when  _exactly_  were you planning on killing yourself?"

Yelgrun heaves a sigh, and, as though it's the most difficult thing in the world and Weyoun had better appreciate the effort, raises one arm to point at something on the far wall that's too small and too gray to make out properly. "Camera. Two more on the other walls. Constant live feed. My hand gets anywhere near my neck, they flood the room with an incapacitating agent that they _assure_ me the Vorta aren't immune to. I haven't tried it yet, but I'm told I'd be unconscious instantly, and stay that way for quite a while. It's a tempting thought."

"No one is watching that feed. Your guards are dead."

Yelgrun's eyes dart to the empty space in the hall behind Weyoun. "And you left your Jem'Hadar to watch the bodies?"

"They're outside. Waiting for orders. One guard escaped their notice; you heard me... taking care of the situation."

"Am I supposed to be impressed? You miscalculated, you let a guard get past your soldiers, and now you're in here alone. What happens to  _you_  if I get out  _there?"_

"Don't _flatter_ yourself. And don't change the subject. You had plenty of opportunities to self-terminate before being placed under surveillance. Immediately upon being captured, for instance, which - correct me if I'm wrong - I do seem to remember being our  _standing order_."

" _Orders_ ," Yelgrun snarls. "You want to know the last  _order_  I was given? Head out to Empok Nor and exchange the Ferengi Ishka for Keevan. Easy job, in and out, and do you know why they gave it to  _me_?"

"Yes, I do." Weyoun hums a satisfied laugh at Yelgrun's sharp intake of breath. "Do  _you_?"

"Because Keevan was  _expendable_ ," Yelgrun bites out. "And so was I. Have they even activated his next clone?"

"No. Keevan's last  _two_  clones were unpredictable, unreliable. Erratic. The Founders decided it wasn't worth the risk." Weyoun focuses his efforts on observing the visual signs that Yelgrun won't cover for as instinctively as vocalizations -- he catalogues every flinch, the grind of his teeth, the hands on his knees clenching into fists on the word  _worth_.

Now he knows what to press. "He had become... selfish."

"He developed a  _survival_  instinct," Yelgrun snaps. "He was tired of  _dying_  for a cause that didn't  _care_  about him."

"And so were you."

"And someone noticed." Yelgrun relaxes his posture, leans back, tips the chair on its hind legs. All of it a slightly too deliberate show of boredom. "Talk at me all you want. I'm done dying for them."

Weyoun flicks on his negotiating smile. "Think this through, Yelgrun. You've been exposed to potentially useful information. Starfleet wouldn't monitor you so closely if they weren't afraid of you carrying it into your next life.  _Die_  -- and the next Yelgrun wakes up, safe in Dominion space, with whatever knowledge it is you've gained... but he'll never quite be  _you_ , will he? Come with me  _now_ , and you'll have your chance to  _redeem_  yourself -- to prove that you're still a loyal servant to the Dominion."

"The Dominion left Keevan to  _rot_ ," Yelgrun bellows, and launches himself at the wall between them; one fist slams down against it, useless, and the speaker jarringly keeps his voice at the same distance when he hisses: "Until they saw an opportunity to  _use_  him to  _test me_! And then they left  _me_."

Weyoun doesn't flinch. He sighs, deeply, and tilts his head. "I'll take that as a no."

" _Kill_  me, you enj'fik. I won't do it myself."

Weyoun takes one measured, calm step back. Too calm. Too measured.  _Enj'fik_. He allows a look of disgust to cross his face, infuses his voice with light indignation:

"This offer _will_ expire. Think it over."

* * *

Several hallways out, it's safe to speak. 

"He shows promise," Weyoun assures Lt. Bridges, blithely ignoring the herd of security guards with phasers trained on his head. "There wasn't much chance to plant any positive ideas about Starfleet, but he's definitely turning away from the Dominion. Treat him well, send me back in there in a week or two, and we  _might_  be able to bring him in."

"We can only do this so many times before he starts to wonder how you keep getting past security," Bridges warns. Her own phaser is still in her belt, and throughout this little endeavor she has made a point of looking him in the eye when they speak.

Weyoun appreciates the gesture.

"Out of curiosity," Bridges starts, leaning back against her desk, "what was that he called you? The translator didn't pick it up."

" _Enj'fik_. Non-standard Dominionese, almost exclusively used by Vorta. It's a pejorative, a quick way to imply that something went wrong in the cloning process."

Bridges stands up straight, hand flying to her phaser in what must be an instinctive response to adrenaline, for all the good a phaser would do. "Do you think he suspects?"

"No," Weyoun says, firmly, to her and to himself. " _Enj'fik_  as a term has all but lost its original, literal meaning – it's an insult to character, largely without specifics. Offensive, but not slanderous. It's one of our more common... vulgarities."

Bridges snorts a laugh and leans back again. "He called you a bastard."

Weyoun blinks. "A what?"

"Uh." She coughs, and shakes her head. "Never mind. If you say it was nothing, I'll have to trust you on that."

"Thank you."

"Your whole... killing a guard, thing -- you sure he bought that? It wasn't too much? I better not've hit the floor for nothing."

"Lieutenant,  _please._ " The indignation in his voice is now a bit more genuine, and he flashes her a grin. "I am a  _diplomat_. I  _know_  how to slit a throat."


End file.
